


Covers

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, North Yankton, PWP, thigh-biting kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>North Yankton-era Michael and Trevor are caught in a motel without heat in a snow storm. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covers

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me—the heat’s out for good?” Michael growls into the phone’s receiver, twisting the curled cord in his fists in sharp, angry motions that belie his barely held back emotions. He is pacing circles in the threadbare motel carpet, a gross shade of brown; Trevor would have found it amusing, if he wasn’t so damn cold. “What the hell are we payin’ to stay here for—“ There’s a pause, and a tinny voice on the other side of the phone, but Michael interrupts forcefully, “Nah, I understand, I _understand_ shit happens, believe me. But this is the worst damn winter the state has ever been through.”

Trevor hunches underneath the heavy comforter the motel had provided, his ushanka pulled tight over his head and the furry earflaps buckled under his chin. “You can fuckin’ say that again,” He grunts, to nobody in particular, but Michael nods at him from across the room all the same in agreement.

They should have known; they were in the most northern tip of North Yankton, mid-January, in the shittiest town imaginable, just in time for a banker’s conference where they would be stealing checks and account numbers or some other shit for some fraud pro Lester had connections with back on the west coast. The motel had only one room left, and then from the surge of people had prompted the motel into losing use of its heat.

The motel had tried to make dues, as best as a bunch of minimum wage teenagers could care for the customers that had no bearing on their paychecks; they had delivered what they had of their blankets in the laundry room and storage, with a promise to dole out more if they were found or acquired. But the storm had ground the going-ons of normal humans to a halt. Trevor pulls the comforter up under his chin, watching Michael idle on the phone. “Yeah, well, you don’t have any space heaters, anything…?”

He putters a bit more; Trevor is zoning out of the conversation, which is amounting to some shivering pre-pubescent being yelled at by a shivering jackass passive-aggressively ball-busting over the phone. His eyes focus on the small window of their motel room; beyond it, the landscape is entirely white. The parking lot, the cars, the road, the convenience store across the way. It’s coming down thick and hard. It’s reminiscent of the rough winters of his childhood. Being young, and the creak of a trailer under buffeting rough winds, huddling around tepid space heaters he had to fight his brother for, or occasionally, even his step-father of the week for. When he grew a little older, monumental storms were a chance at seeing how far he could wander outside. By that point, his mother rarely noticed when he left; he could wrap himself up in Goodwill jackets and fraying scarves and bumrush the fucking world. Him, versus the storm. Just see how long he could withstand it. If he could push himself to wander forever, until his fingers and toes were numb and he fell like an infirm deer in the woods, let the snow consume him and return his body back to the dirt.

The curtains suddenly close on Trevor’s view; he shakes his head as Michael adjusts the curtains tight, the snow of his youth falling from his ears with the soft whomp-whomp of his ear flaps smacking rhythmically against his face. “We gotta keep everything closed, keep this shithole insulated. I’m not freezing to death because Lester couldn’t find us a real damn bank to rob.”

Trevor grunts in agreement, shifting the blankets around his body. Pacing around to the other side of the bed, Michael perches himself on the edge of it. He pulls his down coat around himself; of course, with the convention in town, they had few rooms left when they came in last minute to book it. They had gotten the room with a queen bed. Not that they hadn’t shared a bed before, but Michael had rules in place. Each person had their own set of covers. No wandering hands, Trevor. Don’t ask him about his night terrors. (Though, strangely, they seemed to practically go away when they shared a bed, opposed to when T found himself awoken at night to the sound of wet gasps and near-screaming.)

There were no covers to spare, or at least, Trevor didn’t feel like obeying Michael’s stupid, bullshit rules in favor of cutting his warmth in half. He glares over at Michael’s frowning, hunched over body, and finally whips the corner of the blankets back.

Michael stares at the bed. His shoulders hunch even more; he’s a picture-perfect gargoyle.

“Well?” Trevor gestures, fingers wiggling. “One chance, cowboy, or you can freeze your ass off. I ain’t playing by your games.”

“I’m cold.” Michael mumbles tersely, more to himself than Trevor as he’s scrambling to climb under the blankets. It’s painfully obvious how careful he’s being not to touch Trevor; he curls himself up on the far side of the bed, away from the warmth T has steadily accumulated by rubbing his legs against the sheets and just sitting in the bed. He turns facedown into his pillow, burying his face into it. “I’m _cold_.”

“Stop fuckin’ complaining. Weren’t you born in North Yankton?”

“I wasn’t born this far fuckin’ up, and we lived in a _house_ , not an igloo.”

Trevor frowns, clutching the blankets a little tighter. “Well, la-dee-da, Mr. Had-A-Trailer-With-Heat-And-Loving-Parents—“

“My parents hate me,” Michael grunts, voice muffled.

A snort. “Well, you still had heat.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have the icy heart of a psychopath to keep me warm.” Michael mutters, just loud enough for T to hear.

Trevor doesn’t have the energy to argue with Michael, but then he adds, “Or the blood of a Canadian-“

He sits up, the blankets thrown dramatically off of himself and Michael’s own cursing form. “ _Mikey_ , you take that back, I ain’t a fuckin’—I’m just as American as you are!”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s cold!” He reaches for the blankets; Trevor wraps his fist into the sparse fluff of a square and jerks it backward, out of Michael’s reach. Michael lunges forward, and while he has the heft behind him, Trevor has the speed and sneaky guile to roll away and up into the blankets, like a very petulant burrito.  
On his knees hovering above him, Michael grabs Trevor by the shoulders, shaking—or rather, rolling him aggressively. “You serious right now, T?”

“I ain’t comin’ undone, M, until you apologize. Freeze, you ass-turd!”

Michael throws up both hands in exasperation. “What does that— _all_ turds are ass-turds, you stupid redneck fuck!”

T glares up at him with squinting eyes. Michael frowns. He reaches down, unbuckles Trevor’s hat and throws it off. Trevor’s eyes narrowed even more.  
They nearly slide close when Michael goes from kneeling, to his lower half looming large over top of his body, hands planted on either side of his tightly-wrapped prone form. He leans down, until he’s nearly touching Trevor’s ear with his lips.

“T?”

Trevor can hear his own heartbeat louder than Michael’s whisper; he screws his eyes shut, willing away the pathetic boner already coursing through his body from the other man’s voice, the presence of his body so close. “What?”

“Share the fuckin’ blankets or I’m using your stupid log body to bang the door down and throw you out on your bony, _Canadian_ ass.”

“RRRRRRrrrr MIKEY—!” Trevor immediately bucks, enraged flailing taking over his body and overriding his immediate petulant need to protect the blanket burrito; all it takes is one good yank of Michael’s ham hands and he’s rolled the other man out of the blankets and right over onto the cold floor with a thump.

Trevor whacks his first hard against the ground, and then his feet. “You fuckin’ _asshole_ —“

Trevor gives the floor another kick, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling is cigarette-smoke yellow, and a popcorn texture he can’t even try and pick shapes and figures out of; his time on the floor isn’t long for this world, especially since even in his coat and thick socks he can feel the cold start to surreptitiously seep in. He gives the floor one more frustrated thud before he sits up. By the time he hauls himself to his feet, Michael has gotten himself awfully _comfortable_ in the spot he had been in minutes before, the blankets perfectly smoothed back out over the bed. He even looks smug, all bundled up to his neck, and Trevor feels his gut twist.

Trevor opens his mouth, but it’s Michael who speaks first: “You cold, T?”

His jaw snaps closed. “No.” Trevor lies, crossing his arms. He combs his slowly numbing fingers through his hair, shrugging. “Whatever. Take the bed.”

“I’m not cold. But I’m bored. C’mon.” Michael pats the bed, once. Twice. Trevor grinds his teeth together, and his look falters down to the floor.

His legs take him to the bed. It was inevitable. He hates it. He’s drawn to the heat of the bed, and Michael lying repose like a king amongst his subjects. When Trevor’s knees touch the mattress, M pushes himself up onto his shoulders.

Michael leans in, their noses touching. Trevor feels like he’s drowning, and by the look on M’s face, he knows he’s drowning. And he hates it. He hates Michael, and the way the other man has him wrapped around his finger, the way he utilizes his idolatry for him; he _has_ to know, when he presses their noses side to side, “You could… get under the covers,” Michael offers, slyly, his fingers rumpling the material as he casually kneads at his thigh.

Trevor glares at Michael’s stupid smirk, curses dumbly under his breath. Michael moves in slowly, slow enough for Trevor to stop him, but he doesn’t. He allows him to cross the gap between them in a much-too-tender kiss, let’s M push his tongue into his mouth and traverse the expanse of it as if he was trying to drive Trevor out of the warmth of the bed, through the door and out into the snow, to wander until he found the answers of a best friend with a tongue in his mouth and strict rules about such. (That he never _followed_.)

When they part, it’s with Michael’s hand grasping at Trevor’s scraggly long hair, and it’s barely considered parting when Michael disconnects their mouths but their lips are still touching, breath playing hot against his mouth. Trevor takes one last glance at Michael’s wet lips, and he pulls up the blankets to dive under.  
Underneath the blankets, it’s warm to the point of almost being sticky. Trevor has never been one for heat, but he could get used to something like this, could relish the way he struggles to suck in a breath of air. It smells like a mix of laundry detergent and Michael’s skin, his deodorant. While he was pouting on the floor, Michael had been quick enough to take off his pants and kick them somewhere to the corner of the bed. He’s completely naked waist down. When he draws near, running his hands up Michael’s calves, his knees, running his fingers through the wiry hair of his legs. The deprival of all other senses other than _Michael_ is driving him crazy.

Starting from the top of his kneecaps, Trevor peppers kisses up, up his thigh, dispersing them with the occasional soft bite and long lick of his tongue. Michael has thick legs. They’re short, but they’re strong from being on the run all the time, with thickly corded muscles and a layer of good old Townley insulation around it. He can tell Michael is trying to contain himself by the way his skin twitches underneath his touches; he drags his lips up, brushing them over the dusting of hair creeping closer to his groin. The further of up he travels, the more he’s overwhelmed by the thick smell of Michael, the sound of the blankets rustling, Michael’s heavy, muffled panting, Michael, Michael, _Michael_ —

Trevor groans openly, rubs his cheek against the soft skin of his inner thigh and grabs Michael’s waist. Michael’s leg jerks up at the feel of Trevor’s mustache and the scrape of his stubble.

He turns his face inward and lathes his tongue over the skin of Michael’s thigh, careful not to touch his straining erection. Dragging his tongue against impossibly hot skin, T mumbles against his skin. Without Michael’s gaze on him, those watery blue eyes, and under the safety of six layers, words are lost against the thickness of twitching muscles and the swirl of his tongue.

Michael is saying something above him, but he’s much too focused on the task in front of him to suss out what exactly he’s trying to say. Trevor kneads at Michael’s fleshy hips, nosing along the skin. He plants kisses up, on one side, than the other, and when he can feel Michael’s hand fumbling to grab for his head through the layers of blanket, he sinks his teeth into Michael’s thigh; his legs jerk, clamp around his head, and it’s all Trevor can do but suck on the spot.

That, he hears clearly—that’s Michael’s voice, groaning, “Jesus _Christ_ , T—“ as his hands clumsily grasp for his hair through the blankets and his hips buck. Michael’s cock bounces against the side of his head. T latches onto another patch of skin, further up. In his wake, he’s leaving red, half-moon crescent indents in pale skin. He wants to keep biting, wants to keep marking Michael until he scars, and then every hooker from North Yankton to Vice City could see that someone else had been here before them, someone that could handle Michael in ways they never would be able to—

A sudden gust of cool air graces Trevor’s cheek; he turns his eyes up, and his met with a flushed face Michael, lips glistening and bruised. He had been biting them; he had been trying to _hold back_.

“Get on with it-“

Michael’s shaky words end in a strangled moan as Trevor swallows him whole, lips hugging his cock until it hits the back of his throat and his nose buried in the hair of his pubic mound. He swallows reflexively around his cock, fighting back his gag reflex as he grips Michael’s hips and slides up his shaft.

Trevor has always made quick work of Michael with a blowjob; he’s _good_ at it, he’s had practice, too much practice. He takes the rolls of the other’s hips with nothing more than a slight flinch and the occasional overworking of his throat, swallowing with panic. Kneading his thighs, Trevor can get lost in the motions of it too, his eyes closing and forehead creasing with the effort of keeping his lips wrapped around his teeth and his throat relaxed. He sets the pace from the start as ruthlessly fast; he figures Michael has already been teased enough if the hands running along the indents on his thighs are of any indication, and with his head covered he doesn’t have to indulge in any of the eye-candy fan fair of long licks and murmured dick worship Michael loved so much.

“Trevor, fuck…” He can tell Michael is close when he starts to lose himself and allow the occasional moan. It’s muffled, through the sheets, but Trevor’s could pick out his moans from a million others miles away.

Pulling off momentarily, T dips his head down and takes one of Michael’s balls into his mouth to suck on as his free hand jerks the entirety of his length. He moans around his flesh, lips vibrating, and with the slickness of spit and the speed of his hands he can feel the tightening in his balls before he comes; in an instant, Trevor pulls off, tries to take Michael back into his mouth but he’s already sounding out and coming all over Trevor’s hands.

He’s suddenly struck by how fucking hot it is under five layers of blankets, and Trevor throws the sheets off of them both, panting openly. Michael is leaning against the headboard, eyes closed and a stupid smile on his face as his semen is quickly cooling between Trevor’s fingers.

“Thanks, T.” Michael groans, smoothing a hand over his buzzcut. Trevor leans forward—but Michael is quick to roll off his bed and onto his feet. He looks ridiculous in his puffer jacket and his quickly wilting erection, and he looks even more ridiculous with the lopsided smile and nervous eyes. “I’m, uh—gonna go take a shower, you don’t need the bathroom, right?”

Trevor pointedly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s lucky, really, that M had even let himself be touched when it wasn’t night and he wasn’t halfway down a bottle. But it doesn’t take away from the sour feel of curling fast in the base of his stomach or dull buzz in his ears. He pushes a palm against the front of his pants, and his eyes follow as Michael’s glance away, sudden heat crawling across the shorter man’s face.

“I’m _fine_. Enjoy your shower.” He replies, spits the words out like a bloodied, loose tooth on the ground; Michael looks relieved, turning on his heel for the shower. Trevor allows a moment’s indulgence in watching him leave, but as soon as the bathroom door closes and the shower turns on he is up and on his feet.

Scooping up his hat thrown off long ago, Trevor pulls it onto his head, steps into his boots and retrieves his scarf from the corner to wrap around his face. In the bathroom, Michael jumps at the sound of the front door closing heavily. He glances at his feet, momentarily, but then resumes washing his hair with little guilt.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the anon on tumblr for the prompt, and thank you for reading. :)


End file.
